


That’s Showbiz for You

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: Actors, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hollywood, Hypnotism, Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 12:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18739423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: A young actress is contractually obligated to shoot a nude sex scene with an ugly and chauvinistic co-star.  Can some on-set hypnotism help her overcome her repulsion and see him as sexy?





	1. I Got the Season Two Story Arc!

**_Los Angeles, 2009_ **

I finish my workout, hop in the shower, and promptly miss a call from Delilah, my assistant.

Its still so weird to me that I have an **_assistant_**.  Jesus, I thought assistants were only for the big stars who float from blockbuster to blockbuster, who are always in the tabloids, who can’t be bothered with things like going to the grocery store or putting up their storm windows.  When I joined the cast of Hot Tub, I never dreamed that it meant I’d have to hire an actual person to handle most of my personal life.

But then Blast put the first season of Hot Tub on the airwaves, my life turned upside down.  I knew things had to change when I stopped in my local pharmacy and went to buy some tampons.  **_Of course_** , the cashier recognized me, and **_of course_** the whole incident was blowing up on social media before I got home.  “ _OMG, you guys!  Trixie is getting her period!!!_ ”

Oh, wait…?  You haven’t heard of Hot Tub?  Or Blast?

Jesus, have you been living under a rock or something?

Okay: Blast is that new cable channel.  It was founded by five Internet billionaire playboys, with mountains of cash and no idea how to spend it.  Blast is hoping to break into an already-saturated marketplace by going after HBO’s and Showtime’s audiences.  That means of shows with a lot of nudity, swearing, violence, explicit sex, crude humor, and a laser-like appreciation for the twenty-five year old male.  Blast shows include Bikini Troopers, Alien Overlords, Dirt Bikers of the Outback, Strrrrrippers, American Freedom Wrestling, The Dark Ones, Jiggle Factor, Champions of the Chainsaw Arena, and of course, Hot Tub.

Hot Tub is far and away Blast’s biggest hit.  Our show is about eight twenty-something slackers who decide to fake their own Big Brother-style reality TV show online.  The characters script their plotlines, complete with backbiting, bitchy gossip, flirting, sex, love triangles, power struggles, you name it.  The catch is, once our slackers start filming, they begin fighting amongst themselves, and soon the real drama behind the camera is bigger than the fake drama inside the fake show.

And yes, a **_lot_** of our scenes take place in the hot tub.  I spend hours and hours working out now, because I’m in and out of that damn hot tub in every frickin’ episode.

I’m Abbey Vilsantini and I’m amazed you didn’t recognize me.  I’m the curly blonde on the show.  No, not the bobbed blonde.  Not the sandy blonde in the ponytail.  I’m the platinum blonde with big bouncy curls and the heart tattoo on the outside of her shoulder.  My face and cleavage have been plastered over every bus and billboard for the last several months.  Ah, maybe now you know who I am?  Yes, I’m **_that_** girl.

Our show is a comedy, with a lot of raunchy content, bad language, and gratuitous nudity.  A **_lot_** of nudity.  Yes, I do have a “Nudity and Sex Scene” clause in my contract, and yes, I do have to take it all off if the producers decide that Trixie, my character, should get nakey on screen.  Through luck and my wits, however, I managed to get through all of Season One without ever appearing in my birthday suit.  My castmates, they were not so lucky.  Heh.

******

The Hot Tub cast is meeting in two hours for our first table read of Season Two.  I’m looking forward to seeing everyone again after being away doing summer stock.  So I towel off, yank on undies, a light skirt, a tank top, and my favorite loose sweater.  Then I call Delilah on speakerphone while I apply my makeup.

“ _Hey, Abbs,_ ” she says brightly.

“Hey,” I reply, applying eyeliner.

“ _How you doin’?_ ” Delilah says, a little too cheerfully.  Sometimes, I swear, I can’t tell if the girl is kissing up to me or trying to by my best friend.  She’s my **_assistant_** ; she’s here to work for me.  Why can’t she get that?

“Yeah,” I say curtly, not really answering her question.  “So, earlier, were you calling for a reason…?”

“ _Right,_ ” replies Delilah, getting to business.  “ _So I was just at the studio, picking up your mail.  And I happened to hear Jason and Seth talking in one of the offices._ ”

Jason is Hot Tub’s executive producer, our liaison guy with Blast’s network executives.  I’ve never met the execs, but its clear they monitor the production of our show from up high on Mt. Olympus.  Jason communicates all their demands, which are usually detailed and uncompromising.

Seth is our showrunner, the head writer.  I made a point of dating Seth during Season One rehearsals, although I really don’t like him all that much.  But my fake overtures worked.  Under my charms, Seth saw to it that I never had to do a nude shot or sex scene.  I had that boy wrapped around my little finger, ha ha!

Which reminds me…  I’ve gotta make a point of leading Seth on when I see him later today.  I might have to stroke his cock again.  I’m prepared to go there.

So Jason and Seth were talking, eh?  “Tell me more,” I command Delilah.  I reach for my lipstick.

“ _I didn’t hear much,_ ” my assistant confesses.  “ _But it sounds like Blast is interested that your story arc in this season is meaty._ ”

I pause, liking the sound of this.  “Meaty how?” I ask, lipstick suspended before my face.

“ _You’re getting more scenes, that’s for sure,_ ” Delilah promises me.  “ _Something about ‘Weston.’  I don’t know what that is.  But they mentioned this ‘Weston’ thing in four different episodes across the season._ ”

I grin to myself.  So Trixie, my character, has a major plotline?  Excellent.  That can only be a good thing.  I make a note to complain and see if I can’t get a better trailer.

******

Its now after lunch, and I’m on the Universal Studios lot, walking past the giant soundstages.  I’m late for the Hot Tub table read, but that’s okay.  **_They_** have to wait for **_me_**.

As I am checking my voicemail, the doors of Stage 13 open.  Looks like that shoot is breaking for lunch.  What’s in there?

Oh yeah, that awful wrestling show.  American Freedom Wrestling, or AFW, as the ad men like to call it.  **_God…!_**   As I watch, six bare-chested wrestlers exit the stage, chatting amongst themselves.  They head towards the commissary, never once glancing at me.  A cluster of stagehands follow them.

I delete three voicemails, all from my idiot publicist, Nancy.  Fuck, can’t that woman handle **_anything_** without checking with me?  Why am I paying her, anyway???

The thing that surprised me the most about getting cast in a cable show is that suddenly you have all these expenses you never thought about before.  Blast makes sure your face is **_everywhere_** , so suddenly you are recognized wherever you go.  I can’t go to my gym anymore; I had to hire a personal trainer.  I reluctantly had to drop out of my acting classes; now I pay a personalized drama coach.  I have an agent, a manager, a stylist, a voice coach, my idiot publicist, and Delilah, my ditzy assistant.  Oh, and I’m thinking about adding a driver.  I’m making good money off Hot Tub, but all these expenses are killing my bank account.

Oh well.  When the show goes into Season Five, I can demand that Blast triples my salary.  Just gotta coast until then.

I delete the last voicemail.

The Stage 13 doors open again, and one more wrestler emerges, this one with a bikinied woman under each meaty arm.  I recognize this dude – he’s the… the Southern Avenger…  or something.  He’s the big, featured star of AFW.  His wrestling character is kind of a cross between a Marine and a hillbilly, or something.  I’m from Mississippi myself, and I find this guy’s schtick (and fake Southern accent) perfectly offensive.

Christ, **_look_** at this clown.  He’s tall and insanely well-built.  He must pump iron, like, three hours a day.  His chest alone is broader than three of me.  His arms and legs are huge, bigger than tree trunks, and his neck might be wider than his head.  The guy is solid muscle, except for an enormous gut and belly, which jiggles as it spills over his thick belt.  He wears tiny, tiny, tiny red shorts.

The Avenger sports the world’s worst mullet, which sort of flaps in the air as he walks.  His meaty face is so puffy, even his mother might pause before calling him handsome.  And I can smell sweat and… **_phew!_** really, really **_strong_** BO as he approaches.  He’s one piece of work.

As he passes me, the Avenger’s eyes zero in on my chest and then my hips, and I can tell he’s imaging me naked.  Whatever.  I feel sorry for those bikini ladies, however.  Both of them are struggling under the stink and weight of his sweaty arms.

That’s showbiz for you.

******

When I get to our research room, Hot Tub‘s cast is already assembled in a semicircle of folding chairs, listening intently to Jason.  I don’t respect Jason, so I ignore the little dork’s glare as I take my sweet time selecting a seat.  Even after sitting, I pretend to be more interested in my social feed.

Jason.  Oh, God.  Jason **_thinks_** he’s an artistic person, but for real, he doesn’t have a creative bone in his stiff little body.  He’s just good at latching onto actual creative people, and leveraging their talents.  Maybe that’s why I can’t stand the little twerp.  He’s short – shorter than I am – with thin little arms and legs and a compact little body.  Jason also has a well-trimmed little beard and moustache.  That, combined with his tasteful wardrobe, unmistakably mark him as a “suit,” e.g., a studio bean-counter.

Jason is obviously communicating the Blast execs’ wishes for this season.  “Ben, your shirtless scenes don’t look so good.  You need to lose a little more weight.  And get those washboard abs more pronounced, get me?”

Ben looks worried.  “Uh…”

“Just triple up on crunches,” Jason tells him firmly.  “And no more cheesecake at lunchtime.  Beth…  Where’s Beth?  Beth, your character is dumping Justin and Baxter-“

“Yes!” crows Beth.  Her character has a sex scene in every show.

“…dumping Justin and Baxter,” Jason continues, “because she’s going to start fucking Will and then Tommy.  And maybe Tricia, too.  Haven’t decided yet.”

Beth’s smile fades and I can’t help but smirk a little.  Poor baby.

The downside of being a hot actress is that it is really, really, **_really_** hard to find work where you don’t show off your nude body.  Angelina Jolie, Reese Witherspoon, Charlize Theron, hell, even old **_Betty White_** all had to show T&A  early in their career.  In Europe, doing nudity is literally a career requirement.

So I don’t know what Beth’s problem is.  If you’re young and pretty and you do a cable show, the audience is gonna see you naked.

Now, I’m the superrare exception to this rule.  I’ve only kept my clothes on because I was smart enough to give Seth handjobs when they were scripting Season One.

Hey, its not my fault Beth didn’t think of it first.

Jason ticks off other plot demands from our Blast masters.  Sounds like this season is going to be rocky and even a little soap-opera-eque.  I guess that’s a good thing.  But Jason hasn’t mentioned me, not once.

So I raise my hand, annoyed.

“Oh, yes… Abbey,” our exec producer says lazily, as if just noticing me.  What a dick.  “Yes, you’re at the big thrust of the show this season.”

Addressing the whole cast, he explains:  “Okay, let’s talk about the Season Two story arc.  By decree of the executives… and their market research team… Abbey’s character is going to be carrying the story arc this year.”

Every actor looks at me, a mixture of admiration and rank jealousy on their faces.

TV shows nowadays script their seasons from beginning to end, and there’s always one storyline that dominates all the others.  That’s the season’s “story arc.”  Very important.  Very, very, **_very_** important.

So.  I’m going to be assigned the story arc for the season?  I sit up straight, trying not to grin too wide.

“So… what’s this arc?” Beth asks Jason, still shooting daggers at me.

“Last season, our characters put their reality show up on the Internet, right?” Jason the Dork explains.  “This season, they start talking to an investor, a high-roller out of Las Vegas.  Kind of a dangerous gambler-type guy.  The character’s nickname will be Bling; we’re kinda hoping that goes viral.”

I resist the urge to snort derisively.  Bling?  Seriously?  Jason thinks all of his shitty ideas will go viral.  That’s why he’s a suit and not a creative.

“At first, it looks like Bling is happy to just fund the show,” continues our producer.  “But then Abbey here sees an opportunity, and decides to become Bling’s girl.  And through him, she starts fucking with the show.  It gets juicy.”

Oooooooo, that **_is_** a good idea!  I don’t know if Jason or Seth came up with this one, but I love it!  I let my grin spread wider.

“So make sure you’re doing daily Pilates,” Jason tells me.  “Because your new boyfriend has this thing for really kinky sex.”

…wait, ** _kinky sex?_**

**_KINKY SEX?!?_ **

My smile fades.

******

Immediately after the table read, I storm into Seth’s office.  He’s at his desk.

“ ** _Kinky sex scenes?!?_** ” I screech, even though our head writer is on the phone.

“Let me call you back,” Seth says, then quickly hangs up.  He frantically gestures for me to close the door.

Seth is one of the skinniest guys I’ve ever seen.  He eats tons of pizza, donuts, fried carbs, and potato chips, and yet he has a tiny waist that most actors would kill for.  His neck and ankles are always poking out of his shirts like he’s a turtle or something.  Seth is a reasonably good-looking fellow, although he needs a real haircut.  I couldn’t possibly be seen dating him in public.

“Kinky sex scenes???” I repeat.  “ ** _SERIOUSLY_** , dude???”

“Jesus, calm down,” pleads Seth.  “Just listen to me, okay?”

I fold my arms across my chest.

“I tried to fight it,” he explains lamely.  “There’s no good story reason for your character to have sex scenes.  Its just to titillate the audience.”

“So write it out,” I demand.

Seth sighs, reclining in his chair.  “I can’t, baby,” he says.  “I just… can’t.”

I may be stroking Seth behind the scenes, but I don’t like it when he calls me “baby.”  I’m not his girlfriend.

“Look,” the writer says, seeing that I’m not mollified.  “Season One was our walk in the park.  Blast let us do what we wanted, because they wanted us to define the characters, find our way, right?  But now the training wheels are off.  They’ve looked at the online feedback and done the market research.  They want some really, really specific things in the show.”

“Like what?” I growl.

Seth picks up a printed email with the Blast letterhead on it, and shoves it in my direction:

**_Story features that males (Ages 18 to 35) want to see (ranked):_ **

  1. **_Abbey Vilsantini’s naked breasts._**
  2. **_Abbey Vilsantini’s naked butt._**
  3. **_Abbey Vilsantini naked, having sex._**
  4. **_More character development._**



“See?” Seth says, and he actually manages to look miserable on my behalf.

My eyes bug out of their sockets.  Oh, geez.  The situation is worse than I imagined.

I lick my lips, changing tactics.  Maybe I can wriggle my way out of this.

“Baaaaaaby,” I coo, and I kneel, spreading Seth’s knees with my hands.  “You’re the head writer.  You pitch ideas to the execs all the time.  You’re the cleverest guy I know.”

I slide my hands up into Seth’s crotch.  “And if you want kinky sex scenes,” I murmur, lowering my voice, “you can come back to my place…  Yeah?”

Seth actually grabs my wrists and pushes me away.  “Abbey, you don’t get it,” he insists.  “Blast is not fucking around.  They know you have a Nudity/Sex clause in your contract.  The audience wants to see you fucking on screen.  You’re boxed in.  I’m sorry, there’s **_nothing_** I can do.”

I groan, rising and then flopping onto Seth’s beaten-up couch.  “What can you tell me?”

“Blast’s hired the actor who’s gonna play Bling,” Seth reveals.  “I don’t know him, a…  Weston Somebody.  Weston Lloyd.  Yeah, that’s the guy.”

“Sounds British,” I grumble, pulling out my iPhone.

A Google search pulls up twenty different Weston Lloyds, all old geezers in nursing homes.

“Supposedly he’s some kind of… special case?” Seth offers.  “I’m not sure.  Blast is trying to keep a lid on it so they can surprise the fans when Season Two premieres.”

I grunt, still Googling “Weston Lloyd.”

“You’ve never done a sex scene before?” Seth asks gingerly.

I glare at him over my phone.

“You might want to talk it over with your acting coach…?” he says.

When my scowl deepens, he adds, “…or not?”

******

I spend the next few weeks scheming to get out of my impending love scenes.  Seth is completely useless, so I cut off his sex as punishment.  And Jason?  Jason doesn’t dare offend our Blast overlords.  Besides, the smug little prick seems to delight in my predicament.  Man, I’d love to smack him upside the head.

In the meantime, I prepare for the worst.  I’m on a tight diet already, but I switch to just veggies and steamed fish.  I command that my trainer kicks my butt, and he triples the number of squats I do.  It tones the gluties.

If I have to be shot in the nude, I want to look awesome.

******

We start shooting Season Two a few weeks later.  My mysterious co-star hasn’t materialized, but I’ve noticed a “WESTON LLOYD” trailer parked outside our soundstage.  But I still have no clue what my Romeo looks like.  I hate the suspense.

And then, I see on the call sheet for Thursday:  **_Episode 2.2 – Scene 10A – Lloyd, Vilsantini – 8 pm.  CLOSED SET._**

Fuck me.  We’re shooting after hours, and on a closed set.  That means we’re doing something explicit.  I have a sickening feeling that the scene involves me in the buff.

******

In a panic, I schedule an emergency session with Brenda, my drama coach.  She is an older gal, probably in her fifties, with a hippy appearance, baggy clothes, and purple hair.  I don’t know where my agent found her.  Possibly on another planet.

Brenda listens to me vent about my upcoming sex scene.  I show her what’s written in the script:  Pretty much some dumb one-liners, and then a lot of stage directions where Weston kisses me, takes off my top, fondles my breasts, then pulls down my jeans and enters me from behind.  I have to act like this is the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me.  Oh, God.

My spacey drama coach reads the scene without comment, then nods once.  “So what’s the problem?” she asks.

I gape at her.  “What the fucking problem?!?” I echo, incredulous.  “I have to… **_you know_** … with a total stranger!”

“Abbey,” says Brenda firmly, sounding oddly like my mother, “you’re a professional actress.  This is a scene like no other.  So let’s go through the drill.  Analyze your character.  What is she feeling in this moment?”

This is not the reaction I was expecting.

“Well?” Brenda coaxes.

I repress a frustrated scream and force the actor part of my brain to engage.  “Well…” I muse, “Trixie is… well, she’s horny.  She likes this guy, and she wants to get laid.”

“Exactly,” beams my coach.

“But…” I stutter.  “But this isn’t a scene from Shakespeare.  This is a porno shoot!”

“Oh, pish-posh,” Brenda rolls her eyes.  “You’ll be working with another professional.  You’ll have the best lighting people on you, the best camera people, all working hard to ensure that you’ll look good on screen.  But there’s no actual sex, Abbey.  Just pretend.  Just acting.”

I’m taken aback.  I thought my teacher here would be indignant on my behalf.

“Come on, now,” prods Brenda.

I sigh.  Whenever you prepare a scene as an actor, you’re supposed to think of a past life experience you’ve had that emotionally matches what your character is going through.

So I let out a long breath, close my eyes, and try to clear my mind.  Its hard.  All I can picture is our camera crew, starting at my nude body while I pretend I’m climaxing.  How do porn stars do that for real?

Brenda smiles sympathically.  “You’re having trouble focusing,” she observes.  “Do you want to do this under hypnosis?”

Yes, Brenda and I use hypnosis to help me prepare scenes.  For an actor, getting hypnotized is fantastic.  It puts aside all your worries, sharpens your concentration, and turbo-charges your imagination.  I was skeptical when she first tried to put me under.  But now I’m a believer.

Today, however, I don’t feel like going into trance.  “No, no, I can do this,” I frown.

I purse my lips together.  _Focus_ , I think to myself.

Have I ever been so crazy horny that I wanted a guy to strip me down, then fuck me doggie style?  Sure.  I can relate to that.

I think about that college production when I was Lady Macbeth.  Macduff was this crazy hot blonde guy with gorgeous eyes and ripped abs.  So cute...  So hot.  We had a terrible time keeping our hands off each other.  Once, during a performance, in Macbeth’s scene with the witches in Act IV, Macduff and I slipped into the prop room, and we…  Mmmm…  **_Yeah_**.  Well, I can use that life experience here.

“There, you see?” Brenda says with satisfaction.  “That’s what you have to channel on Thursday.”

******

The day of my nude shoot finally arrives.  I’m so nervous, I don’t eat all day.  I double my exercise routine and then look at the naked me in the mirror for a half-hour, scrutinizing every part of my figure.  Well, I look fabulous.  That’s something.

Wish I felt braver.

******

We shoot some routine scenes in the morning and afternoon, and **_still_** there’s no Weston Lloyd.  What the heck, is he not coming?  If my sex scene is canceled, I wish someone would tell me.

When the regular cast and crew break for the day, the soundstage is a symphony of commotion.  Most people are going home.  But a skeleton crew will remain to film my X-rated moment.  Jesus, I’m on a first-name basis with most of those guys.

Stefan, our director, spots me and waves for me to come over.  He and I haven’t talked yet.

With a career that goes back to the 1970’s, Stefan is the classic television director.  He’s overweight, balding, with a terrible complexion and an even worse wardrobe.  Visually, he looks like a wreck, but the man works like crazy.  He shot seven episodes for us last season, also while directing at Lost and True Blood.  I’m glad I don’t know him socially, but I respect his work ethic.

“Okay,” Stefan says gruffly, flipping through his scenebook.  “You ready for tonight?”

“I guess,” I say, wondering if it isn’t too late to make a last-minute plea to escape my imminent nudity.

“You want full body makeup?  We’ll be using soft lighting, so its up to you.”

I’m not sure I want the make-up crew painting every inch of me head-to-toe.  So I decline.

“Whatever,” Stefan says, popping a stick of gum into his mouth.  The dude hasn’t a scrap of empathy in his entire body.  He talks to me like I’m about to do nothing more than clipping my toenails on camera.

As we’re talking, Jason, our slimy executive producer, wanders into the conversation.  Despite Jason’s carefully neutral expression, I can tell that he knows we’re shooting my sex scene tonight.  Man, I want to punch the dude square in the face.

“Everything okay here?” Jason asks, none-too-casually.

“Fine,” shrugs Stefan.

“ ** _No,_** ” I snort.

“We’re fine,” insists Stefan.  Jerk.

The director turns to me.  “I was gonna fully block your scene,” he tells me, “but we’re running short on time.  Maybe you and Weston want to just improvise the sex?  That’s fine, I don’t fucking care.”

“Maybe we can just kiss?” I say hopefully.

Our director shakes his head, dashing my hopes.  “Uh-uh,” he scoffs.  “Says here, I’m supposed to get five tit shots, three butt shots, and one long shot of you getting drilled from behind.  Plus all the getting naked stuff too.”

A real charmer, our Stefan.

“Hey, why don’t you talk it over with Weston now?” Jason asks.  “You two haven’t been acquainted yet, right?  You’ll be working together all season.”

“Weston?” I exclaim, looking about.  “He’s here?”

“Oh, yeah,” replies Jason, looking at me like I’m an idiot.  “For real, you don’t know him?  He’s been here for the last hour.”  And he points to one of the folding chairs.

Sensing the introduction, a man rises from the chair and approaches me.  I nearly fall over as he steps into the light.

Its that disgusting AFW wrestler.  Weston Lloyd is the Southern Avenger!

******


	2. I Can’t Shoot This Scene!

“ ** _RAPIST!_** ” I cry out involuntarily.

Jason, Stefan, and the Avenger all stare at me.  The wrestler looks more surprised than insulted.

“I mean…” I quickly say, “…hi.”

Now I get why I didn’t spot the huge brute before.  The Avenger… ahem, _Weston Lloyd_ is in costume, which are actual clothes, not his teeny wrestling shorts and huge leather belt.  No, now he’s wearing slacks, a black button-down shirt, loafers, but no socks.  That horrid mullet is still hanging loose, however.

… ** _pfew!_**   And the man still reeks of BO!

“You’re Weston Lloyd?” I blurt out, pointing an accusing finger.

“Yo,” the musclebound titan smirks.  He’s not using the fake Southern accent that he uses on TV.

“ ** _You_** ,” I repeat, my mind still blown.  “ ** _You’re_** Weston Lloyd?!?”

“Yes,” Stefan says, annoyed.  “This is Weston.  You don’t follow wrestling, do you?”

“Hey, bro, that’s okay,” the Southern Avenger smirks.  He straightens, confidently nodding at Jason.  “Abbey here, she’s about to become a big ol’ Weston fan.  Ain’t that right, doll?”

Doll?  **_DOLL???_**   Did this arrogant mountain of flesh and bad taste just call me **_“doll”?!?_**

“Heh,” Weston grins, openly inspecting my body.  To Stefan, he remarks, “Gawd ** _DAMN_** , dude, she’s even hotter in person.  Nice rack.”

My mouth falls open in disbelief.

Our director is already flipping through his scenebook.  “Mmm,” he says, not really responding to Weston’s commentary.  “Listen, kids, we only have the union guys until eight.  That’s not a lot of time to get your scene in.  I gotta talk with the lighting people; can you just work out your own blocking?”

“Sure, sure,” Weston says, still admiring my breasts.  “What’s blocking?”

My eyes pop.  **_What’s blocking?_**  I couldn’t have heard that right.

“Um…” Jason steps is, seeing that I’m about to explode.  “Maybe Abbey can take the lead here?”

“Nothing fancy, okay?” Stefan instructs me, still not looking up from his book.  “First, I need you guys to just kiss.  Then – I don’t know – Weston gets you naked, he plays with your tits, and you end doing it doggie style.  Just make it look hot.”

“Stefan!” I protest.

“I’ll shoot the scene in one continuous take, then we’ll reset for close-ups.”

“Ste-   …close-ups?” I exclaim.  “Close-ups of **_what?!?_** ”

“Oh… you know…” the director says vaguely, gesturing at my chest and crotch.  “Look, are you kids set?  I gotta-“

**_That does it._ **

I stride forward, grabbing Stefan and Jason by the arm and propelling them away from the set.

“Gentlemen,” I snarl through gritted teeth.  “ ** _Might_** I have a word?”

******

“ ** _Are you fucking kidding me?_** ” I hiss the moment we are out of the crew’s earshot.  “There’s no way I’m doing this scene, not with-“

“Let me stop you there,” Jason snaps.  “Look, I know you’re upset at how this was handled.”

“ ** _Fucking A!_** ” I retort.

“Well, welcome to Hollywood, babe,” says our producer, looking irritated.  “Look, the Blast Network loves Weston Lloyd.  **_Loves_** him.  This guy sells more action figures than Spider-Man and Darth Vader **_combined_**.  He’s been voted Favorite Badass – or something – on the MTV Awards for the last three years.  His wrestling contract is almost up, and Blast wants him locked into a show before he goes off and does films.”

“But the meathead can’t act!” I blurt out.

“That’s showbiz for you,” mutters Stefan, diving back into his scenebook.

“Weston’s actually very, very intelligent,” Jason protests weakly.  “Just… eccentric in his own way.”

“Uh-huh,” I glower.

“Look, my hands are tied.  Our show got Weston Lloyd, and we have orders to feature him as much as possible.”

I fire back, “So why does that mean I have to do love scenes with him?”

“Well…” Jason says, looking embarrassed, “…the execs had to think of some way to entice him to do the show…”

For the second time, my jaw drops open.  Jason’s so lucky that I don’t smack him into next week.

“Kids,” Stefan says impatiently, “I only have a crew for another hour and forty-two minutes.”  He points at me.  “You and Weston block your scene, just keep it simple.  Got it?”

I glare back and open my mouth to respond.

“Abbey,” Jason says quickly, almost pleading.  “Blast wants to keep Weston Lloyd happy.  They will be furious if they don’t get their scene.”  He adds with emphasis, “ ** _…Understand?_** ”

I understand.  Either I shoot softcore porn with the Southern Avenger… or I’m fired.

******

Still fuming, I grab Weston and pull him into our bedroom set.  We have a scene to block.

“Alright,” I grumble, trying to take control of the situation, “Stefan doesn’t care what we do.  So I was thinking we start with a slow kiss-“

“Yeeeeeah,” Weston grins, and steps in to embrace me.

“Whoa, Romeo!” I cry, scooting away just in time.  “Let’s, uh, let’s talk this out, okay?  I think-“

“Awwww, baby,” my co-star smirks, “we don’t need to do no talkin’.  I know how to handle a woman, **_believe_** me.”  He tries to pat my butt.

I step back and suppress all my outrage with a haughty exhale.  “ ** _Dude_** ,” I say firmly, “we’re here to rehearse.  Not make out.  Besides…”

I pause, sniffing.  “Did you… shower before getting into costume?” I can’t help but ask.

“Oh?” Weston says.  He raises one arm and deeply inhales from his own armpit.  “ ** _Mmmmm…!_**   No, that’s pure me, baby.  That musk is all West.”

He adds in a soft and proud voice: “ _…yeeeeah…!_ ”

I feel a little sick.

“Let’s just focus on the scene, okay?” I suggest.

******

Over the next half an hour, I do my best to be the consummate professional.  I block the scene as if I’m the director, telling Idiot Weston Boy where to stand, when to move, and when to wait for me.

It’s a horrible experience.  Weston puts his hands all over me, usually when – and **_where_** – he wants to.  He has a real fondness for grabbing my ass and trying to insert his fingers between my buttocks.  Thank God my costume are tight jean shorts!

He’s an even worse kisser.  When we try our first stage kiss (full lips, but no tongue), Weston grabs me and sticks his tongue right between my mouth.  So gross!

Even more alarming, the wrestler has little patience.  When I want to step through the scene, he grows impatient, blows or disregards his blocking.  He **_never_** properly delivers his lines.

“Dude,” I finally say in annoyance.  “Can we just get through the scene once?”

Weston rolls his eyes.  “Aw, what’s to know?” he groans.  Then a naughty smile snakes across his puffy face.  “I know what you want, _yeeeeah…!_ ”

And then, before I can protest, the big lug takes me in his arms.  He presses his crotch against me and plants his hands on my butt.  His lips lean in for the kiss.

“Gah!” I cry, pushing him away.  “Jesus, you do understand **_that we are not having sex_** , right?  **_WE_** will **_NEVER_** have sex.  Our characters will have sex.  **_Not us._** ”

Weston smirks; he hasn’t heard me.  “In the scene, I’m supposed to take off all your clothes,” he remarks.  “Why don’t we practice **_that?_** ”

“You first,” I shoot back.  “Or are you afraid to get naked?  You know, before the cameras?  And all of America?”

A flicker of doubt ripples across Weston’s pudgy face.  What, it didn’t occur to the big lug that he’ll have to strip down too?  Moron.

But the wrestler quickly resumes his cocky demeanor.  “Naw, baby,” he enthuses.  “Weston Lloyd, he’s only afraid of **_one thing_** , you know what that is?”

“Soap?” I say dryly.

The egomaniac hasn’t heard me.  “ ** _Nothing!_** ” Weston yells, startling the sound guys.  “ ** _I ain’t afraid of NOTHING!!!_** ”

I groan, wondering if I have time to run to my trailer for a headache pill.  Or escape this madhouse.

A Production Assistant runs up, then uncertainly looks at the both of us.

“ ** _What???_** ” I snap at the PA, who cringes.

“Stefan is ready to shoot you guys,” the Assistant mutters.  “He says to get in place.”

Oh God.

******

In five minutes, the bright lights are on us, and the crew has swarmed about.  The sound guys lower the boom mike.

Feeling nothing but dread, I stand on my mark.  _Please let us nail this scene,_ I pray.

“Action!” Stefan yells.

I put on my Trixie face and turn to face Weston.  “Hey baby,” I give my line.  “I thought I’d never get you to myself.”

“Yeeeeeah,” Weston replies, wrapping his python-like arms about me.  “You’re **_hot_** , girl.”

Okay, that’s not the line, but I don’t care.  I just gotta get through this scene.  Like the pro I am.

“You like this bed, baby?” I continue, silently cursing Seth for this horrible dialog.  “It seems empty without you in it.”

Weston presses against me, and he’s full-on hard.  I find nothing erotic about any of this, but I soldier on.

We kiss.  I feel like my lips are fighting his, and man, his lips are strong.  Uh, his **_breath_** is strong!  So strong.  Gross.  I have to bring a carton of Tic Tacs to our next shoot, that’s for damn certain.

Suddenly Weston grabs my top and begins pulling it up.  Okay, that’s **_not_** what we agreed to, but I guess I can go with it… right?

The wrestler yanks hard, and the shirt hits my chin.  **_Ow!_**

Clod.

Now grinning broadly, Weston pulls me closer, fumbling at my bra strap.  His thick fingers can’t maneuver the tiny latch.  His tongue pushes against mine.

Aw geez, this caveman’s never gonna figure out how a bra works.  Although it threatens my balance, I reach around behind me and unhook my strap, all while still locking lips.  Weston makes a happy grunt, pulling off the brassiere.  I feel the cold studio air on my chest.

“Okay, start tracking in,” I hear Stefan tell Bill, the camera operator.

Weston’s hands slither over my body, and now he’s cupping my mammies while pressing against me even harder.  I wrap my arms about his thick neck, if only so I don’t fall over backwards.  I’m back on my heels as it is.

Oh fuck, this scene is even worse that I imagined it to be.  Before Hot Tub, I once made out with a seventy-something producer to get a two-liner part in his action movie.  **_That_** was an ordeal, but I did it.  And I convinced the old geezer that I actually lusted for his shriveled body.

But filming this scene with Weston is kinda worse…  If only because the wrestler is supposed to be acting, and I don’t think he is.  At all.

Suddenly my co-star grabs me by the hips, spins me around, and shoves me toward the bed!  I spill across the mattress, stunned.

 ** _The fuck?!?_**   We didn’t agree to this!

As I push myself up, I feel Weston’s huge hands on my butt.  He’s squeezing me, like my buttocks are two melons at the store and he wants to see how ripe I am.

Wait… one of his hands is sliding down between my legs…

**_THIS IS NOT WHAT WE REHEARSED!!!_ **

“Fuck this!” I scream, climbing over the bed at top speed.

“Hey!” protests Weston.

“Fuck you!” I bellow, pointing an angry finger at him from across the mattress.

I see both Jason and Stefan stepping forward, approaching me.

“ ** _Fuck you all!!!_** ” I screech.  Then I grab my top, pull it on over my head, and dash out of the soundstage.

******

My cell starts ringing before I even hop in my car and pull out of the studio parking lot.  Calls keep rolling in as I drive home at reckless speeds.  And more calls come in when I get home and bury my head beneath my pillow.

My phone rings all damn night long.  I refuse to even look at it.

******

I awake the next morning, just before five AM.  I have a seven AM call for today’s shooting.

Normally, I’d hit my home gym for an hour of cardio, then drive to the studio.  But… Jesus… I’m not even sure I have a job anymore.  Is there any point?

There are – no lie – forty-three voicemails on my phone.  Everyone called me last night.  Seth, Stefan, Delilah, Brenda.  For God’s sake, Jason **_alone_** called me twenty-three times!

I pour some Jack Daniels and mull my options.  If I’m fired from Hot Tub…  Christ, I’m fucked.  **_Fucked._**   Everyone in Hollywood will know.  I’ll be lucky to get a local Pay-Per-View commercial after this debacle.

I’ve gotta go and face the music.  After all, I have to pay my trainer, stylist, and publicist by the end of the week, and I haven’t gotten my Hot Tub paycheck yet.

******

I get a rude awakening when I hop in my Porsche and open the garage door.  There, blocking my fucking driveway, is another sports car!  The **_fuck?!?_**

Oh my God!  It’s Jason!  Jason, that prick of a producer, is sitting in his cherry red Mustang, fast asleep behind the wheel!  His head is lolled to one side and his mouth is wide open.  I can hear his loud snores even through his windshield.

Despite my fear of losing Hot Tub, I blow a gasket.  How dare this shameless bastard block me in?!?

I lean on my horn.

Jason leaps awake, his heart pounding and his eyes wide.

I leap out of my car and storm towards him.  “The fuck, dude?!?” I bellow.

Jason climbs out of his seat, still waking up.  “Ab…  Abbey…” he stammers.  “I… uh…”

“ ** _WHAT?!?_** ” I holler.  I raise my purse, as if to bring it crashing down on his head.  I’m sure I look absolutely ridiculous… but I don’t care.

“Jesus, Abbey!” Jason cries, stepping back.  “Truce, truce!  Can’t we talk?”

I’d like nothing better than to smash the little snake’s teeth in.  Or flatten him with a steamroller.  Really, nothing in this world would give me greater pleasure then to see Jason’s bloodied corpse scraped up off the pavement.  But I hesitate.

“Look,” says Jason, talking quickly, “I know you’re mad.  I am too.  But this situation is bigger than both of us.  Seriously!”

“Yeah?” I growl.

“Yeah,” the producer assures me.  “Can we… can we talk?”

******

Although I am still fantasizing about kicking Jason square in the balls, I invite him inside my messy condo.  My dirty laundry is scattered everywhere.  Oh well, I’m hiring a maid later this month.

While Jason fidgets at my kitchen island, I nuke some instant coffee.  It’s the only peace offering I can manage right now.

It turns out that when I dashed off the set, Jason the Jerk pursued me immediately.  He drove home after me, calling me every five minutes.  Then, when I didn’t come outside, he decided to wait for me in my driveway.  Which is sorta gutsy of him, I’ll give him that.

“Look,” Jason mumbles, “I… uh…  I thought Weston knew how professional actors are supposed to do love scenes, you know?”

The producer fumbles his way through an explanation.  It turns out that the instant Weston tried to grab my hoo-hah, everyone watching the scene immediately realized that something was seriously, seriously wrong.  “There was no way Weston was allowed to do that,” Jason admits.

I listen, without saying a word.

“So I owe you an apology,” manages Jason.  “The show manages you an apology.  We shouldn’t… we shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

**_Interesting._ **

“Perhaps you’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” I say coolly.

Already I’m plotting my next moves.  Now that Jason has admitted Weston’s transgressions, ha!  I can sue Hot Tub for millions.  Retire at age twenty-six, live the high life back in Mississippi for the rest of my days.  Maybe start a fashion line for fun.  The sky’s the limit.

“Hold on,” Jason says coldly.  He’s seen my plans.  “Read your contract.  I’m apologizing to you as a professional courtesy, but don’t think you have standing to sue.  Your Nudity/Sex clause allows for… certain leeway… in situations like this.”

I pause.

“And if you were haul us into court,” my producer continues, “well, that would torpedo production of Season Two.  You think Blast wouldn’t countersue?”

Ah.

Shit.

I frown, swallowing the rage I feel right now.

“So where do we go from here?” I say tightly.

Jason nods.  “Well,” he says slowly, “I will talk with Weston.  He’s used to his wrestling show, and I think they treat female talent over there differently.”

I shudder, suddenly grateful I’m not on American Freedom Wrestling.

“We can get the guy to use professional standards,” Jason says hopefully.

“Or,” I say tartly, “you can drop the love scenes.  Right?”

Jason shakes his head.  “No.  Blaze was clear.  They want your character to have an explicit sex scene with our new star.  Its a big part of the big story arc of Season Two.”

I snort, glaring at my ceiling.  Its about as likely that I could win the Kentucky Derby on foot than Weston Lloyd will become a professional actor.

“Look,” Jason says, and his voice is completely sincere.  “You’re in a terrible spot.  I get that.  I **_so_** get that.  I wish I could change this shitty situation, I really do.”

“Then you go shag Weston on camera,” I retort.

But despite my sarcasm and bile, I have to admit:  Jason seems genuinely concerned for me.

“I do what I can with the execs and with Weston,” the producer assures me.  “But there’s no way around it; you **_have_** to do the scene.”

“What’s more,” he add gingerly, “there will be a lot of love scenes this season.  A lot of them.  You get me?”  Jason looks at me earnestly.  “Is this something you can do, Abbey?  If not… there’s literally nothing I, or anyone else on the show, can do to help you.”

******


	3. I Can Shoot This Scene!

I pressure Jason to give me the morning off, and he reluctantly agrees to rearrange today’s shooting schedule to accommodate me.

Then I place some emergency phone calls to Brenda, my weirdo drama coach.  When I finally reach her, she sounds like she’s out in public.

“ _Abbey,_ ” she says, surprised.  “ _Is something the matter?_ ”

******

An hour later, I’m in Brenda’s home studio.  Normally, we work in my condo, but Brenda is squeezing me in before her eleven o’clock, and I can’t risk being the demanding diva bitch today.  I need Brenda’s help.

I rapidly explain the situation.  Because Blast makes us sign stupid nondisclosure agreements, I can’t say who my new co-star is, or even what other show he works on.  All I can say is that he’s an apelike man-child who seems to think groping me on-set is a job perk.

“Oh my,” Brenda gasps, looking horrified.  “Your co-star isn’t a professional?”

“He’s got the maturity of a thirteen-year-old boy,” I moan, “with the body of a fat superhero.  And he smells terrible.”

“I see,” mumbles Brenda, taken aback.  For once, she seems at a complete loss.

I shift in my folding chair, eyeing my mentor carefully.  “So,” I prod her, “what do the pros do in situations like this?”

Brenda puts a hand over her mouth, flummoxed.  She can’t look me in the eye at the moment.

“Well?” I demand.

“I don’t know,” squeaks my coach.  “I…  I don’t know.”  She quickly adds, “Oh, I’ve heard of other girls who were cast in roles where they had to do sex things with their male co-stars.  But they were always paired up with professionals.  This…”

She spreads her hands.

“I don’t know what to do about this,” she finishes lamely.

I fume, reclining in my chair.

We sit in silence, thinking dark thoughts.  I was expecting Brenda to pull some acting technique out of her butt, something I could use to… I don’t know… push my way through these scenes.

Jesus, its not just this first love scene I have to worry about.  I’ve got a whole season of fake-humping Weston ahead of me.  And what if he’s extended into Seasons Three, Four, longer?  How am I going to play Trixie now?

Maybe that’s the problem.  No-one could play my character now.  Meryl Streep couldn’t fake an attraction to Weston Lloyd.  Maybe its futile to even try.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

I’ve got it.

I snap my fingers, drawing Brenda’s gaze.

“Hypnotize me,” I instruct her.  “Hypnotize me to actually think Weston is attractive.  Just enough to get through our scenes together.”

Its a terrible idea, I know.  But what fucking choice do I have?

If I can’t act like I want Weston on camera, why not fool my brain, just to get through the scenes?  I can perform under hypnosis; Brenda and I have done that in our coaching sessions together.  Why can’t we turn that on for the actual shoots?

My coach immediately sees my plan.  “Oh,” she exclaims, the worry lines creasing in her forehead.  “Oh, Abbey, I don’t think-“

“Its perfect,” I cut in.  “Unless you can think of some other way.”

Seriously, either I perform the lovemaking scenes hypnotized or stone-cold drunk.  There’s no other way that I’ll look like I’m into the Southern Avenger.

Brenda shakes her head.  “Abbey, honey, hypnotism isn’t a rewiring of your desires.  Its a way of enhancing your imagination, that’s all.”

“So make me imagine this guy to be, you know, genuinely attractive.  And bathed.”

“It won’t work,” Brenda says pointedly.  “I could put you in a trance now, but the effects would wear off, don’t you see?”

“Aw, **_Goddamnit_** ,” I swear, then put my head in my hands.  I’m being punished, I just know it.

“Well…” Brenda offers, and I sense her resolve weakening.  “Maybe we could…”

“Yeah?” I say quickly.

My drama coach hesitates.  “We could…”

“Spit it out!” I bark.

Looking uncertain, Brenda says, “We could give you some suggestions now to calm you down and make you feel better about the scene.”

“Not enough,” I veto.

“I wasn’t finished,” responds Brenda.  “Then, assuming you go deep enough into hypnosis, I could try to associate your co-star with another man, a man you are genuinely attracted to.  If it worked, you’d see your scene partner as Brad Pitt, say.”

Trade Weston for Brad?  Oh, I have a major thing for Brad.  **_Major_**.  He’s like the one guy I would **_want_** to do a love scene with.  And, yes, I’d actually fuck him on camera.  I’d do porn with Brad, if given the chance.

“That sounds good,” I say, immediately assuming the hypnosis position in my chair.

“Wait,” Brenda interjects.  “Here’s the problem, Abbey.  We can hypnotize you all you want now.  But there’s no way that you’ll have the full effect of the hypnosis when you shoot your love scenes later today.  No way.  At best, you’ll have a lingering sense of what the trance felt like.”

I groan.  “Ooooooooooookay,” I huff.  “So… what if we do the hypnosis now.  And then I take you to the shoot.  All you have to do is rehypnotize me before we go before camera.  Right?  So I can get through the scene while still under.  That should work.”

Strictly speaking, I’m not allowed to bring anyone on the set with me, especially not a closed set.  But fuck it, I’m a desperate woman.  If Jason complains, I’ll play on his guilt.

I’ve just decided.  There’s no way I’m dry-humping smelly Weston Lloyd if I’m not hypnotized.

Brenda is reluctant, but I won’t take no for an answer.

“We can try…” is the most commitment I can pry from her.

“Do it,” I instruct, and mentally get ready for going into a trance.

******

Brenda has hypnotized me many times before.  As her voice casts its spell over me, I feel that familiar serenity and mindlessness take over.  Soon, I can’t move my arms or legs, I can’t open my eyes, I can’t speak a word.  Brenda’s words permeate into my thoughts, and I find myself wanting nothing but to obey her.

“ ** _Picture your co-star in your mind,_** ” Brenda intones.

I see Weston Lloyd materialize before me.  He’s wearing his ridiculous little wrestling shorts and boots.  His mullet and puffy face look even more repulsive than usual.

“ ** _As you concentrate,_** ” my hypnotist tells me, “ ** _notice how he begins changing.  His unattractive features are fading.  His good qualities are sharpening.  Yes, as you observe him now, see how your co-star is changing before your eyes.  With every breath, you find him more and more desirable._** ”

Oh my God!  Before my mind’s eye, Weston is transforming!  I watch as his face loses its bloated quality.  His cheeks define themselves, and his jaw becomes square.  His eyes turn light blue.  The awful mullet shrinks and now his hair is short with a neat military buzz cut.  His teeth are now white.

“ ** _As you go deeper into hypnosis,_** ” Brenda’s voice goes on, “ ** _you see your co-star as you secretly wish to see him.  Every feature you would want in a man is appearing in his body._** ”

Weston’s gut withdraws.  In delight, I see he now has a tight little waist, with a ripped six-pack and well-defined pecs.  His shoulders and arms are narrower, but still loaded with toned muscles.  As I sigh and relax even more, Weston turns to one side, and I can see that his ass is sculpted like marble.  He now has the aerodynamic body of a surfer dude.  Oh, so nice.

Yes!  I didn’t see it before, but Weston is…  **_Oh My God!_**   Weston is Brad Pitt!  He **_totally_** is Brad Pitt!  How did I not realize this before?  Well, there’s no doubt.  The sizzling hunk of man before me is absolutely, no qualms about it, one billion percent Brad Pitt!

And not just any Brad Pitt.  Oh, no.  This is Brad from Fight Club.  Rough, ripped Brad.  Badass Brad.  And he smells wonderful!  Mmmmm…!  Yummy.

Oh, I’m getting wet.

“ ** _And now,_** ” Brenda’s voice commands me, “ ** _you will find that the man before you is the man you will see on set later today.  When it comes time to film your scene, you will be acting with this man, and totally experience this man with all your senses._** ”

Brad flicks his brooding stare over me, grins once, and I swoon, just a little.  Ah, Brad.  I’d fuck you now, if I could only get out of this chair.

I’m dimly aware of Brenda counting.  She’s bringing me out of hypnosis.  Do we have to stop now?  I was just-

******

“Ten!” Brenda says forcefully, snapping her fingers.

I blink a few times, feeling confused.

What just happened?

“How do you feel?” Brenda asks me calmly.

“Okay,” I respond, rubbing my eyes.  “Um… okay.”

What were we just doing?  I can’t remember.

“Did you hypnotize me?” I ask.

“Let’s get to the studio,” Brenda tells me in her no-nonsense tone.  She hasn’t actually answered my question, but I follow her instructions automatically.

In ten minutes, we’re in my Porsche, driving to the studio together.  I’ve completely forgotten what we were doing in our session.

******

By the time we arrive at the studio, most of the day’s shoot is done.  Stefan gives me a curious glare, but says nothing.

I check the call sheet.  I have a few simple scenes to shoot before dinner.  Okay, then.  Then its closed set again, to refilm my sex scene with Weston.

Hmmgh.  Weston.  Where is that Neanderthal?  I don’t see him.

Oh well.  I’ll worry about him later.  Strange, I don’t feel as anxious about him as I did this morning…

******

It’s a few hours later.  Stefan is filming the tail end of a scene with Tommy, Justin, Baxter, and Tricia.  I was in this bit, but my character has exited and now all I have to do is wait to see if our director wants to do any reshoots.  I sit in my personalized director’s chair, filing my nails and wishing I could go home.  Brenda is sitting next to me.

My drama coach touches me on the arm.  “After they finish this scene, they’ll reset for your sex scene,” she murmurs.  “We should do a little reinforcement hypnosis then.”

Hypnosis?  Brenda is here to hypnotize me?  Huh.  I wondered why she was hanging about.

I’m about to ask her why, when off to the right, the stage doors open.  A huge man steps into our soundstage.

Brenda sucks in an excited breath and suddenly grips me with a clutch of iron.  “Oh… my… God!” she breathes.

“What?” I ask.

“That…” gasps Brenda.  “That’s **_Weston Lloyd!_**   Omigod, omigod!”  She’s positively giddy.

With a sense of bewilderment, I realize that Brenda, my dippy drama coach, my educated-at-Stanford master thespian, my Unphased-By-The-Glitter-Of-Hollywood teacher is a closet fanatic of American Freedom Wrestling.  She’s bouncing in her seat as Weston moseys past us to the nearly-empty catering table.

“That’s the Southern Avenger…!” Brenda whispers, enchanted.  “Oh…  Oh, wow.”

“Oh Jesus,” I mutter, putting my head in my hands.

“What?” asks Brenda.

I violate my Hot Tub nondisclosure agreement, explaining who my lecherous co-star is.

“You get to make out with Weston Lloyd?” Brenda sighs, jealous.

I gave her a horrified, withering stare.

“I mean,” Brenda says, quickly composing herself, “so he’s your co-star.  Hmmgh.”  She clucks her tongue, once.  “Well, we’ll be ready for your scene.”

She glances about.  The soundstage is nearly empty.  Stefan, the remaining crew, and the actors are concentrating on the now-filming scene.  A few sound guys are pulling up power cables far behind us.  A janitor is already here, sweeping up the trash of the day.  Weston is scarfing down old donuts, scratching his behind, and carefully watching Tricia and her bikini get out of the set’s hot tub.

“Let’s do a little hypnosis now,” suggests Brenda.  “Then we’ll do a quick autosuggestion just before you and Weston shoot.”  She sighs happily as she pronounces _Weston_.

I still don’t know why she’s talking about hypnosis, but I allow my drama coach to lead me into the clubhouse set, which is empty at the moment.

“Good,” Brenda says firmly, using her authoritative voice.  “Look at me, Abbey.”

Suddenly, my feet are rooted to the ground.  I can’t look away.

Slipping an arm around my waist, Brenda waves her hand and tells me, “And now, you will… trance…”

My eyes close on their own.  I feel my body turn to lead and I slump against her.  I remember nothing more.

******

“ ** _In a moment, you will awaken,_** ” Brenda’s voice tells me.  “ ** _You will remember nothing.  But you will discover that Weston Lloyd is hot and sexy, and you will find it easy to film your explicit scene with him.  This will all seem completely natural to you._** ”

I float in this incredible relaxation, not a care in the world.  I’m actually really happy to listen and obey Brenda’s voice… even if what she says doesn’t seem to make any sense.  Oh well.

******

Suddenly, I am blinking, my eyes fluttering open.  Where am I?  Oh…  Oh, right, I’m on-set.

“Com’on,” Brenda tells me quickly.  “Let’s get back to your-“

“ _Attention, please,_ ” Stefan’s voice blasts over the soundstage intercom.  “ _Are Abbey and Weston on-set?  Can we switch to a closed set please, and get that naughty stuff done now?  Thank you._ ”

“Ah,” my drama coach smiles.  “Just in time.”

“Just in time for what?” I mumble, still feeling light-headed.  The last thing I remember, Brenda and I were sitting in the director chairs.

Brenda takes me by the arm and we move toward Stefan and the crew.  As we step off the clubhouse set, we nearly trample someone who was just on the other side of this fake door.

Weston!  Weston Lloyd was just standing there, like an idiot.  I guess he’s unused to how filming sets work.

“Oh, hey there, ladies,” Weston mugs.

“H-h-hi…!” trills Brenda, going weak in the knees.

“ _Abbey and Weston!_ ” Stefan bellows through the megaphone, although he’s just twenty feet away.  “ _On-set, please!_ ”

Still a little confused, I hurry to the bedroom set, adjusting my costume.  The lighting and camera guys are already there, working with my stand-in.

“Oh, hold on,” a lighting tech cries out from up on the scaffolding.  “Two minutes, people?  I don’t have the right filter…”  He rushes to a ladder.

A sigh, checking my nails again.  The motto of the filmmaking is “Hurry up and wait.”  This is a case in point.

Everyone checks their smartphones or gossips as we bide our time.  The light guy is back, fiddling with the main spot.

I glance around, realizing I’m the only one on the set.  The hell?  Where’s Weston?

I peer about more, and spot the big lug behind the camera crew.  He’s looming over Brenda, chatting with her intently.  And… oh my God…  I think he’s hitting on her?

Weston has one hand on Brenda’s shoulder, and his other hand is absently playing with her purple hair.  He grins down at her, occasionally waggling his eyebrows.  My drama teacher looks absolutely gaga to be trapped.  She beams up at him, nodding and giggling as he regales her.  She looks transfixed.

Christ, what could smelly ol’ Weston Lloyd possibly have to say to-

“Got it!” the lighting guy shouts.  “Sorry, everybody.  We’re set up here!”

“ _Weston to the set!_ ” Stefan roars through the megaphone.  “ _Places, people!_ ”

I watch, perplexed, as Weston pats Brenda on the cheek, once.  She goes bright red and smiles like a lovebitten teen.

Then the wrestler spins on his heels, heading toward me and the set.

Is it me, or does Weston actually seem kind of attractive…?

As the wrestler approaches, he quickly scans about him.  Then, in a swift motion, he kicks the wheel break of our backup camera rig.  No-one but me notices.  The camera, a million-dollar-plus piece of equipment, begins to roll freely across the soundstage.

“Whoa!” shouts Bill, our top camera guy.

There’s a mad scramble as the whole crew hurries to secure our runaway equipment.

As this little drama is unfolding, Weston suddenly appears at my side.  He grins down at me.

“S’up, Abbey,” he smirks.

“Hi,” I say.  Oddly, I’m both attracted… and yet revolted by… my co-star.

Before anything else happens, Weston’s arm wraps about my waist.  He passes a beefy hand over my eyes, telling me, “And now, you will… trance…”

And then, my world fades.  I’m dimly aware of my body collapsing against the giant wrestler as I tumble down into an obedient sleep.

******

I’m now relaxing like you wouldn’t believe, hovering in a blue sky of bliss.  I have no stress whatsoever.  I feel like I’m a million miles away from anything negative in my life.  I love this feeling.

“ ** _When you awaken,_** ” I hear a voice speaking, “ ** _you will find me unbelievable sexy, too sexy to be believed.  You are hot for me in every way.  Every second in my presence will make you horny, so unbelievably fucking horny.  You will be unable to control yourself or keep your hands off me.  You have to have me in the worst way.  Do you understand?_** ”

Its so weird.  This voice, it sounds like… both Weston and Brenda, merged together.  No, its like Weston is speaking to me… but using Brenda’s hypnotic authority.  I can’t explain it.

But I want to obey.

Distantly, I hear my own voice reply, “…yes.”

“ ** _Later,_** ” the voice commands me, “ ** _you will have an uncontrollable urge to visit my trailer.  Once you are inside, you will want to take off all your clothes and fucking worship me as your sex god.  My giant cock will be your only desire.  You will remember none of this when you awaken.  Understand?_** ”

Once again, my lips say, “…yes.”

******

Then I am conscious, standing on-set, wondering why I feel so uncoordinated.  Was Weston saying something to me?  Man, am I scatterbrained today…

The crew guys have secured the backup camera.  Everyone’s attention returns to Weston and me.

“ _Okay, you kids ready to shoot this?_ ” Stefan barks.  Without waiting for a response, he cries, “ _Action!_ ”

As I move into position and begin channeling my character, I glance beyond the camera crew.  Brenda is watching me like a hawk, and she looks absolutely horrified.  I wonder what’s up with her?

Oh well.  Too late to stop now.  Stepping up to Weston, I deliver my first line:  “Hey baby…  I thought I’d never get you to myself.”

“Oh yeah,” grins Weston.  “You’re all mine now, _yeeeeeeeah_ …!”

As my co-star take me in his arms, I realize with a start… he’s **_gorgeous!_**   Absolutely gorgeous.  So gorgeous, he’s like… he’s like Brad Pitt had a sexy baby with a Greek God or something.  Wow!

For real, Weston is a shining paragon of sexy hotness!  I can’t believe that I didn’t see it before.  As my appreciative eyes sweep over him, I stunned to realize I literally can’t choose what is Weston’s best feature!  His face?  His glittering eyes?  Those dimples?  His rippling muscles?  His thin little waist?  His soft skin?  That… mmm ** _MMMmmmm…!_**   That wonderful smell that seems to flow from his every pore?  His sexy smile?

I can’t fucking decide.  God, this man is **_hot_**.

 _Keep it together,_ I tell myself.  _Gotta shoot the scene._   What’s my next line?

Oh yeah.  “You like this bed, baby?” I purr, using my best bedroom eyes.  “It seems empty without you in it.”

“Heh,” grunts Weston.  “Heh.  Heh.”

Now he’s supposed to kiss me, but I can’t stand it anymore.  With a passionate abandon, I throw myself at him, my lips attacking his.  I press my body against his, making sure to plant both of my breasts against his broad chest.  I’m sure my nipples are pointing like hunting dogs right now; well, let’s let Weston feel them, shall we?

Christ, I’m so hot.  I’m wet.  As I move my legs, I can feel myself dribble.  **_That’s_** how wet I am.

I kiss Weston harder, wondering why he isn’t ripping off my clothes.  What’s so hard about this?  I’m in heat, I can’t grunt or pant any louder to get the message across.

There!  Now my ultrastudly co-star is lifting up my blouse.  I raise my arms, wiggling a little to help him out.  I think he’s supposed to take off my bra, but to hell with that.  I snap it off in one motion, then plant Weston’s generous hands on my naked chest.  I resume tonguing him like crazy.

“ _Oh.  My.  God…_ ” I hear Bill murmur behind the camera.

I’m beyond that now.  I’m so fucking horny, I want to conceive all of Weston’s children, right here, right now.  I don’t care if Westie and I are in the middle of the White House lawn, I am fucking this perfect man **_immediately_**.  The whole world can watch.

Moving like a music video dancer, I slink out of my jean shorts, panties, and shoes, letting Weston gratefully play with my ass.  It feels great.

Now I’m naked, Big Boy.  Your turn.

My fingers eagerly rake Weston’s shirt upward, and he happily twists to let me pull it over his head.  God, look at that chest!  Lean and firm, with every square inch defined by an iron-like muscle!  Wow.  Oh, wow.  Weston must do a thousand crunches a day.  I appreciatively fondle his tight six-pack as I go for the zipper on his trousers.

But as I open his pants, I feel Weston tense and pull away, just a little.

What the hell?  He doesn’t want me?

I moan, loudly.  And just to make it clear that I want his cock, I breathily say, “Yeah, baby, give it to me…!”

Oh shit.  We’re filming.  That’s not a line.  Oh well, hopefully Stefan won’t mind a little improvisation.

You know what?  Fuck Stefan.  Fuck the crew watching me.  Fuck Hot Tub.  Fuck everyone!  I’m so batshit horny-crazy, I don’t care if this scene is being livestreamed on the Time Square Jumbotrons.  I have to have Weston Lloyd.  I have to fuck Weston Lloyd!

**_I have to fuck Weston Lloyd!_ **

**_NOW!!!_ **

With a determined snarl, I seize Weston’s pants, shoving them down.  As soon as they drop off his thighs, I plaster my nude body against the Adonis-like wrestler, making sure he’s cupping my breasts.  I grab both sides of his chiseled, angular face, and kiss him harder.  Ohhhhhhhh, I fucking want him so!

“Oh my God, dude,” I dimly hear Bill mutter.  “We’re way off the script.  Should we…”

“Shut the fuck up!” hisses Stefan.  “This is gold!  Keep filming!”  With admiration, he adds, “I told them to block their own scene…  Damn!”

I barely take notice.  I’m so wet, I can smell myself.  Its time.

I pull Weston to the bed.  We’re gonna fuck in a standing position, I’ve decided.  I grip his shoulder with my left hand, which I’ll need for balance.  And with my right hand, I reach down for his precious cock…

Weston stiffens again.

What the hell?  My fingers can’t find his cock.  Oh wait, his hand is down here to help me find it-

No.  No, that’s not his thumb.  Both of Weston’s hands are on my body.  What the hell…?

I look down.  In my right palm, is Weston’s penis.  Little Weston.  Even fully erect… he’s about as big as my middle finger.  Less, even.  He’s, like, three inches.  At most.

The heck?

Weston Lloyd, Sex God, has a tiny penis???

“ ** _Holy shit_** , you guys,” Bill exclaims, before he can stop himself.

I don’t care.  I’m so aroused, I’m risking a serious medical condition or something if I don’t climax soon.  I hoist myself up, ready to insert Little Weston into my vagina…

But he’s too small.  I lower myself onto his pencil-pole, and he slips out immediately.

 _Seriously, universe???_ I think furiously.

“Jesus Fuck!” a sound guy whispers.  “He’s **_tiny!_** ”

“Oh my God…!” another camera assistant mumbles in awe.  “I can’t fucking believe it…”

Getting angry now, I heft myself again, shoving my hips closer to Weston for a better angle of penetration.  I try to pop him in…

But Weston is tense, and no longer responding to me.  I can tell he’s distracted by the idiot crew.

“Baby,” I mutter quickly, trying to distract him, “I want you so fucking badly, baby, give me that big throbbing cock.”  I try more kissing as I reach for him again.

Its no use.  Weston’s little wee-wee is deflating like a cheap tire in my hand.  I can feel him trembling.

Now the crew is openly discussing the situation is muted tones.  “Oh my God,” I hear a lighting assistant mumble.  “Its like he missed puberty down there, or something …”

“Quiet!” yells Stefan.

But the moment is lost.

“Don’t look at me!” wails Weston, shoving me aside onto the bed.  He covers his crotch with one desperate hand, while trying to grab his discarded pants.

“Cut,” Stefan says, disgusted.

The crew all let out a collective breath of disappointment that the scene isn’t in the bag.

“ ** _Fuck you all!_** ” Weston blurts out, nearly in tears.  He yanks on his pants, then flees the soundstage.

******


	4. Epilogue:  I’m Gonna Get Fired!

Things unravel pretty quickly from there.

In Hollywood, the stars’ dirty little secrets are usually protected by a mutually understood conspiracy of silence.  You know which A-list actress insists that the studio fly her manicured poodle to location sites via a luxury jetliner?  Or which director forces all his leading ladies to blow him before they can audition?  Or which studio executive spends $10,000 on premium cocaine every month, then consumes most of it while working in the office?  No?  **_That’s_** the conspiracy.

But occasionally, a nasty secret breaks that no amount of professional discretion can hide.  The great Weston Lloyd, self-proclaimed sex god, has a three-inch cock?  When **_erect?_**   And its captured on camera, somewhere in a studio vault?

 _Pft_ , forget it.  That rumor was on Facebook within four hours.  And on TMZ the next day.  And in The New York Times by Sunday.  By the end of the month, even the Australian aborigines knew that Weston Lloyd was a pygmy.

A savvier man would have ignored the gossip.  Claimed it was all a smear by jealous nobodies.  But Weston Lloyd, never one to act with forethought, immediately scheduled a press conference which went viral the moment they flicked on the cameras.  There, with the entire world watching and gobsmacked, Weston declared that he had an **_ENORMOUS PENIS._**  And anyone who muttered otherwise was obviously a liar, out to get him, and a member of the “liberal pansy elite fearmongers.”  No-one had any idea what that last accusation meant, but Weston let it fly with gusto.

But when grilled by the press, the star wrestler quickly turned defensive and then hostile.  And then he broke down into blubbery tears at the worst possible moment.  His street cred crumbled.

It seems that Weston the Egomaniac had never actually realized how small he really was.  His managers, and girlfriends, all desperate to keep the Weston Gravy Train running, had assured him that he was quite well-endowed.  The delusion had persisted, right up until the moment I dropped his pants.

That Weston.  The guy was intelligent, no doubt about it.  He’d figured out how to become the star of a wrestling show.  And how he knew how to form proper hypnotic suggestions while I was in his power, I’ll never know.  But despite all the smarts that God gave him, the key to his stardom was that he was really one big, deluded idiot.

That’s showbiz for you.

******

While American Freedom Wrestling is quickly anointing the Hammerclaw Crusader as their new star, Hot Tub is in a bit of a crisis.  Obviously, Weston is off the show, which leaves our Season Two in complete shambles.

“The Blast execs are going batshit crazy,” Seth confides to me, late one evening.  Our head writer looks tired, as if he’s been working nonstop for days.  “We have to replot the whole season.”

“You can’t just revise the scripts you have?” I say, hoping I sound casual.

“Nope,” Seth shakes his head.  “Our plotlines got leaked to the press, and now the execs are terrified that if you appear in a sex scene, the feminists will accuse them of blatant exploitation.  Or something.”

“Oh,” I say quietly.

Inside, I’m jumping for joy.  No more sex scenes?  **_Yes!_**

“So now, Hot Tub Season Two has no arc,” Seth says wearily.  “And you have absolutely nothing to do this season.  Nothing.”

My inner smile fades.  Characters with nothing to do get cut.

Am I about to get fired?

******

Hut Tub suspends all production for a week while Seth, his writers, and Jason work furiously on new plot ideas.  I wait anxiously, growing more worried with each passing day.  My God, what if Trixie is dropped from the show?  I can’t afford my own expenses.

So I hang out at Universal Studios, attending the rehearsals of other shows, wondering if I can jump into a new, and better role.  While I get appreciatively ogled by male producers, there are no prospects.

******

Late one night, I am walking by the Hot Tub offices when I notice the lights are on in Seth’s conference room.  That means they’re still arguing over basic story ideas.  Not good.  Fuck!

Feeling worried, I make a detour and poke my head in the room.  There, looking exhausted and at wits’ end, are Seth and Jason, slouched on opposite sides of the writers’ table.  There are legal pads and papers scattered all about, plus cold pizza.  The room smells stale.  These guys have been working non-stop.

“How’s it going?” I ask, a little too brightly.

Both men jump, then glare at me.

“Just ducky,” Seth mutters.

“We’ve got nothing,” admits Jason.  “We’ve got no fucking ideas.  Season Two…”  He sighs.  “Season Two has no arc.  We’re fucked.”

There’s a heavy silence.

“I’m sorry,” I offer.  To my surprise, I actually feel sorry for these guys.  I mean, look at them, they’ve been working so hard to save the show.

In particular, I find myself inspecting Jason.  You know, I used to think Jason was a parasitic letch who liked to take credit for the ideas of real artists.  That’s what producers do, you know.  And any other producer in this exact situation would have jumped ship at the first sign of trouble.  Its says a lot about Jason that he’s doing all he can to save Hot Tub.

Fuck me, am I actually feeling sorry for the guy?  Huh.  Well, stranger things have happened.

I’m about to withdraw when a light bulb goes off in my head.

“Hey…” I say slowly.  “You guys want a story pitch?”

Seth and Jason slowly look up at me.

“Sure,” Seth says sarcastically.  “Pitch me.”

I lick my lips, assembling the words.  “Well,” I say, “what if in the faked reality show, the guys realize that the Internet audience tunes in to see the women in the hot tub?”

“Right,” agrees Seth.

“Okay,” I say, spreading my hands.  “So, in a bid to boost their ratings, they guys try to force the women to do nude scenes in their show?  Only then the women rebel, and well…  Trixie could lead that revolution.  She would insist that the men have to appear naked first.  And of course, no-one actually has the guts to take off their clothes.  That’s showbiz for you.”

Seth and Jason stare at me.

“You know…” Jason remarks, the wheels in his head turning, “…that **_would_** provide for a lot of drama.”

“And sexual tension,” agrees Seth.  “Hmm.”

The boys sit up.  Jason is rubbing his jaw, already deep in thought.  Seth grabs a legal pad, and begins jotting down some notes.

“Food for thought,” I say, grinning.

Then I withdraw.  Neither Seth nor Jason notice.

******


End file.
